Once a Ranger
by Darkover
Summary: Some explanation as to why Faramir was so quick to acknowledge Aragorn as his king.


9

Title: "Once a Ranger"

Author: Darkover

Rating: K

Disclaimer: The characters of the "Lord of the Rings" were created by J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for love, not for money, and no copyright infringement is intended or should be inferred.

Summary: Some explanation as to why Faramir was so quick to acknowledge Aragorn as his king.

~ooo0ooo~

"Mablung, you must go on without me."

"My lord, I cannot!"

"You can, and you must. Someone must take word back to the Steward that Orcs have not only entered Ithilien, but they have established a camp here—a camp which must be destroyed." Faramir grimaced, not just from the pain of the scalp wound which burned and made his head pound with every beat of his heart, but from the knowledge that his father, Lord Denethor, would be thoroughly displeased. Not just by the unwelcome news that there were more Orcs in Gondor's territory than had been realized, but by the fact that his younger son's first mission as a Captain of Rangers had gone so ill. Faramir and Mablung had all but stumbled on the Orcs, who had been unusually stealthy for their kind, behaving as if they were tracking or pursuing someone or something. Why else would Orcs be abroad in daylight, even if the day was an overcast one? The result had been four Orcs dead—Faramir had at least brought two of them down with his arrows, before the remaining two had rushed him and Mablung—and a wounded Faramir.

"You must go," he said again. "My wound slows my pace, and it will be full dark soon. Then the Orcs will be out in even greater numbers."

"All the more reason for me not to leave you, my lord!" Mablung insisted.

"I am ordering you to do so, Mablung. I must be certain that this news is carried to the Steward." Faramir's eyes closed briefly, not just from the pain, but from the thought of how his father would react at learning that his son, during his first time in the field, had led himself and one of his men into a near-fatal encounter with the enemy.

Mablung seemed to sense what he was thinking. "No one could have handled the matter better, Captain. That is what we will tell the Captain-General, and that is what he will report to the Steward."

"That is what *you* will tell him. I have given you an order, Mablung. Go, now!"

Faramir could tell that the faithful Ranger still wanted to argue, but being too well-disciplined, Mablung said merely; "Yes sir," and faded silently into the underbrush.

The young Captain leaned wearily against a tree. _Father is right. I am more scholar than warrior, and that is not what Gondor needs. I am not even what my men need. What kind of Captain allows himself to be wounded on his first mission, and then allows one wound to make him so weak? I shall rest for just a moment, and then…_

He did not complete the thought, for as his eyes closed, his legs gave way beneath him, and he slid, unconscious, to the ground.

~ooo0ooo~

When Faramir opened his eyes again, his father was bending over him.

He gasped and struggled to sit upright, but his father pressed a hand gently but firmly to his unbruised shoulder, holding him in place. "Peace, lad. You are safe here."

Faramir found he was warmly wrapped in a cloak and blanket, neither of which belonged to him. The sun had set, but a camp had been set up, and a fire was burning merrily. His father sat alongside him, watching him with grey eyes that held only concern and a steady kindness, not the calculation or the scorn which he usually perceived others, including his own younger son. "How do you feel?" Denethor asked.

Faramir licked dry lips, trying to find words.

"You need water," Denethor said, and reached out and down, one hand gently supporting the back of Faramir's head, which was now bandaged, while the other held a water skin to the young man's mouth. Faramir drank gratefully.

"Are you hungry?" the Steward asked gently, when Faramir had finished drinking. The latter nodded, and instantly wished he had not when his head began to ache badly again. By the time his vision cleared, Denethor was offering him bits of _cram, _broken into small bite-sized pieces. Faramir obediently ate a few, discovering as he did so that if this were _cram, _it was the most delicious he had ever tasted. He could not recall _cram _ever tasting quite so good.

After eating and being helped to another drink of water, Faramir felt almost human again. He was still bewildered, all the more so by the fact that his father too was dressed in the garb of a Ranger. Faramir marshaled his wits and his voice enough to ask; "Father, how came you to be here?"

The Steward looked at him oddly, and then his already-kind gaze softened even further. Reaching down, he very gently brushed hair back from Faramir's bandaged forehead. "You are confused, lad. A head wound can do that, and the wound was poisoned, as well. Do not fear, I have tended it, and you will heal. But you should rest."

"Then you are not angry with me, Father?" To Faramir, all the rest was secondary.

"Of course not, lad," the man said gently. "And I am not your father."

"But…" Faramir gave up. This man looked enough like Denethor to be his brother. "What shall I call you then, sir?"

The man paused. "Call me Estel." As they spoke, the man lifted a pan filled with water, took a handful of leaves, breathed on them, and then crushed them and cast them into the water. He held out the pan towards Faramir. "Breathe."

Faramir was aware of the scent of roses—the kind of roses his mother had grown in her garden when he was a small boy. The smell had always soothed him, and it did so now. He found his eyelids getting heavy. Before he could ask anything else, he fell asleep.

~ooo0ooo~

When next Faramir rose to consciousness, it was to the sound of voices.

His eyes flew open and he tried to sit up, grabbing for his sword. A hand gripped his shoulder and the familiar sight of Mablung filled his vision. "Easy, Captain. You are safe, and all is well."

"He's awake?" an even more familiar voice demanded, and then in the next instant, he received a bone-crushing hug from his older brother. "Faramir! Thank the One! When Mablung came back alone, I feared the worst!"

"I ordered Mablung to go on without me," Faramir said. He was relieved to discover that his head no longer hurt. "Did he tell you—?"

"Yes, he gave me a full report, and I have sent news of the matter on to Father." Boromir helped his younger brother sit up. "We have food. Do you think you can eat?"

Faramir remembered his rescuer. "Boromir! There was a Man—he set up this camp last night, and tended my wound. I would thank him. Where is he?"

Both Boromir and Mablung looked at him, puzzled. Boromir spoke. "Little brother, when we arrived, there was no man here save you. The fire was still burning."

"He must be around," Faramir said, and then smiled slightly. "You cannot mistake him for any other, my brother, for he looks just like our father."

Boromir glanced up at Mablung. "Mablung, tell the other men to begin breaking camp." The soldier nodded and moved off. Gondor's Captain-General turned back to his younger brother, lowering his voice slightly as he spoke. "Faramir, I have seen no such man. Nor have you, I deem."

"What do you mean? I saw him last night—he made this camp, he tended me, gave me water and food. I do not lie, brother."

"Of course not," the elder said hurriedly. "But Faramir, you have a head wound. And I know how determined you are to make our Father proud, how worried you have been that he might judge you and find you wanting."

"What are you saying?"

"Faramir, this camp—" Boromir gestured to indicate their immediate surroundings. "It was set up by a Ranger, and no other, that was clear. I believe you set up the camp last night, and then, exhausted by your wound, you fell asleep and dreamed you saw a man who came to your aid. In your dream, this man protected you from harm—"

"I did not dream it," Faramir said quietly.

"Brother, I know it seemed very real," Boromir said gently. "But you have always had most vivid dreams, and you suffered a head wound. How else to explain all this? Do you really think it a coincidence that this strange man who succored you, looked just like Father?"

"He said his name was 'Estel.'"

Boromir smiled. "And that is not also significant? You are the scholar, little brother. What does 'Estel' mean in Sindarin?"

"Hope," Faramir admitted.

"There, you see?" Boromir said, clearly considering the matter to be settled. He kissed his younger brother's brow. "Come, let us return to Minas Tirith."

~ooo0ooo~

Years later, Faramir saw 'Estel' again. Once again, he had been wounded, and this time, as he walked through a valley of death and despair, the man he knew by the name of 'hope' called to him. Faramir, hearing that voice, seeing the face of the one who had come to his aid once before, did not hesitate even a moment to answer.

"_**My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?" **_


End file.
